A Journey Unwanted

[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Heart Kingdom]

[Pulchritudo]

"Hm."

The small sound left Shuten-dōji’s mouth with interest.

They had already forgone strolling through the streets. At some point during their conversation, the two had left the busier roads behind and found their way onto what was probably a manufacturing building. It was tall and wide, its broad structure taking up a considerable amount of space within the city, though there was little activity around it at this hour. From the ledge near the top, however, the building offered something the streets below could not.

A much clearer view of the night sky.

The city stretched beneath them in every direction, its lights scattered across the darkness in countless clusters. From this height, the streets looked narrower and the people smaller, the movement of the city reduced to a very distant flow. Above them, the sky was open and clear, filled with stars that were difficult to properly appreciate while surrounded by buildings.

Mikoto sat on the ledge.

Shuten-dōji sat beside him, close enough that their conversation did not require raised voices but not so close that either of them had to acknowledge the other’s presence physically.

For once, the oni did not appear eager to tease him; she looked sympathetic.

Intrigued, too.

Mikoto’s earlier admission had given her something to think about, and she seemed reluctant to simply let it pass without understanding what it meant.

"Remembering naught the names of those you love..." Shuten-dōji began after a moment, her gaze resting somewhere beyond the city rather than immediately on him. "That may be one of the greatest tragedies there is. To remember that someone mattered to you, to remember the feeling of loving them or missing them, yet to lose something as simple and fundamental as their name... I cannot imagine that being easy to live with."

Mikoto made a quiet noise of acknowledgement.

He propped one knee up and rested his pale arm across it, settling into a more comfortable position on the ledge.

"It’s annoying," Mikoto corrected; his answer was dismissive.

It was hardly because the subject was meaningless to him, but calling it a tragedy seemed to give it more importance than he was willing to openly acknowledge.

"That’s all it really is. Annoying." He looked out over the city. "Parts of my mind are blotted out. It’s not just that I forgot a couple of names and somehow everything else is perfectly intact. I doubt it’s just their names. If I can remember that I had a mother and a sister but can’t remember what either of them were called, then there’s obviously something missing in between."

His fingers shifted slightly against his sleeve.

"And I don’t know what else is gone."

Shuten-dōji’s expression became unreadable.

The amusement she had carried earlier disappeared, replaced by an emotion much more difficult to define.

"Losing oneself..." she said quietly. "Now that is a great tragedy."

Her eyes remained on the city below.

"It is one of the worst things that can happen to an individual. Losing someone you love is painful, certainly, but there is still a distinction between yourself and the person you lost. You remain. You remember them. You carry what they meant to you, even if carrying it hurts."

She paused for a moment.

"But losing pieces of yourself is different. You may continue breathing, speaking, thinking, and walking as you always have, yet slowly become someone you no longer recognize."

Mikoto’s head tilted slightly.

"You really think so?" For the first time since they had sat down, he turned properly toward her.

There was genuine interest in his eyes, not much, but enough.

He wanted to hear her point of view.

Shuten-dōji noticed that immediately.

"Memories are precious, however tragic," she started. "They shape a person. They make you who you are."

Her expression became strangely serene as she stared across the vast city below them. The countless lights reflected in her eyes, but her attention seemed elsewhere, caught somewhere between the view before her and the thought she was trying to put into words.

She was beautiful.

"We become who we are because of our experiences. The good ones, the terrible ones, the moments we cherish, and the moments we would rather forget. Whether we like who we become because of those experiences is almost irrelevant."

She breathed out softly.

"For who we are is... unique." Her voice became quieter. "There is only one version of us who has lived exactly what we have lived. One person who has endured our particular happiness, our particular grief, our particular mistakes and our particular regrets. It is all of those things together that forge an individual."

Her red eyes slowly turned toward his own.

"And even if some of those experiences were painful, they still belong to us." She held his stare. "Take that away, and can you truly say you are still that person? That individual with their own experiences, their own history, and their own reasons for becoming the person they are?"

There was a brief silence.

"To take away one’s identity is a cruel murder," the oni finished. "Perhaps the body survives and perhaps the voice remains the same. And maybe everyone around them insists that they are still themselves. But if enough of the things that made them who they were are taken away, then what exactly remains?"

Mikoto stared at her.

"Didn’t peg you for the philosophy type," he mumbled.

He shifted his arm, bringing his delicate chin down into his hand.

"But I guess it isn’t wrong."

He continued staring into her eyes; there was something about the way she spoke that had caught his attention. It wasn’t particularly profound because she was trying to sound profound. She wasn’t performing for him. There was no sense that she was attempting to impress him with some carefully constructed wisdom.

She simply seemed to mean what she was saying.

"Hm."

Mikoto’s eyes remained on hers; he considered how much he should tell her.

He had already resolved to talk.

That was the whole reason they had come up here in the first place. He had agreed to speak instead of brushing her off, and some part of him had apparently decided that perhaps saying things aloud might actually help.

But talking did not mean bearing his soul.

There was a difference between explaining himself and exposing everything. He wasn’t going to give her every piece of himself simply because she had asked.

Still, he could not quite look away from her eyes.

It wasn’t because he was enamored with her or anything like that. He simply supposed he admired how genuine the oni was being.

There was no obvious scheme in the way she watched him. For someone who had spent so much time around people who seemed to want something from him, that straightforwardness was unusual.

"I’m not usually like this," Mikoto said.

His voice had softened; there was still the bluntness in it, but the sharpness had diminished. His words came more easily and pleasantly, as though he were speaking about someone he remembered rather than describing himself.

Shuten-dōji’s lips curved.

"What?" she questioned teasingly. "Cute and spunky?"

Mikoto’s expression flattened.

"I’ll throw you off this building."

He shook his head and turned his gaze forward again.

"I meant being this sour. This constantly irritated me. Me insulting everyone, not caring much about other people, acting like everyone around me is getting on my nerves even when they haven’t done anything."

He rested his chin more firmly against his hand.

"There’s care there. I’m not saying I suddenly stopped caring about everything. But it’s blotted out. It’s like I know I’m supposed to care about certain things, and somewhere in me, I still do, but it doesn’t come through the way it used to." He looked down toward the distant streets. "That’s what I mean when I say I’m not usually like this."

Shuten-dōji leaned closer, her interest becoming more apparent.

"Oh?" she questioned. "Then what were you like usually?"

Mikoto considered her question; he was quiet for a moment. It was not because he did not know the answer.

If anything, he knew it immediately; he simply had to decide how honestly to describe it.

"I was a little shit," he decided.

The answer came with the slightest hint of self-awareness.

"I think that’s probably the best description." His mouth twitched somewhat, though it was not quite a smile. "I doubted there were many things I took seriously. I made friends easily. Probably too easily. I joked too much, talked too much, and didn’t always know when to shut up." He paused briefly. "I was whiny, too."

His gaze remained fixed on the city.

"Especially about getting back to my family. I complained about it a lot. I wanted to go home. I wanted to see them again. I probably made it everyone else’s problem whenever I got reminded that I couldn’t just leave and go back whenever I wanted."

The description was almost embarrassing and almost fond.

He seemed to be remembering someone he recognized but could no longer completely reach.

"I guess I was a pain in the ass," he added quietly. "But I was happier."

Shuten-dōji hummed softly at that.

Then a broad, beautiful smile slowly bloomed across her face.

"Then I must say," she started, her voice carrying genuine amusement and warmth, "Mikoto Yukio sounds like quite the interesting individual."

Mikoto remained silent as he kept looking toward the city.

Yet for the first time that night, the thought of the person he used to be did not seem entirely unpleasant to him.

Mikoto Yukio.

A little bastard.

Someone who made friends easily, who took very few things seriously, who complained about wanting to return to his family, and who cared more openly than he did now. Someone whose memories had been partially blotted out, leaving him with fragments of people he could still miss without even being able to remember their names.

The stars remained above them, and the city remained below.

("This... isn’t so bad.")